


In Time, the Night May Soften

by maychorian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rescue, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, Wisdom Teeth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-05-02 00:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19188520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maychorian/pseuds/maychorian
Summary: Catch-all for Batfam fics written for tumblr prompts.First one: "Look at me, okay? Breathe." with hurt!Tim and comforting!Dick.





	1. "Look at me, okay? Breathe." Tim & Dick

_8\. “Look at me, okay? Breathe.”_

The sound of a shot rang in the alley like a bolt from the blue. From the corner of his eye, Nightwing saw Robin go down like a rock dropped from a height. It wasn’t like the movies when someone got shot in real life. In real life the victim didn’t get blown backward, didn’t stagger dramatically and clutch themselves before folding to the floor. If you were hit somewhere, somewhere bad, you just stopped what you were doing and fell down, and that was what Robin had just done.

_”No!”_

Nightwing had already been in mid-swing at the other thug, number two of two. He followed through, letting his weight come behind it maybe a little too hard. The thug’s head snapped to the side with a sickening crunch. He could have broken his neck, and Nightwing’s heart lurched yet again. But the guy fell down, moaning but still. Not dead.

Only one left, the one with the gun. Nightwing turned on him, fists clenched and mouth in a snarl. There hadn’t been guns when he and Robin first swung down to stop this mugging in process. The two thugs had had pipes, dangerous but not deadly. But this one had been concealing a Saturday night special and must have pulled it out too fast for Robin to dodge.

Nightwing was ready, though. He knew how to deal with guns. He didn’t give the guy time to react, already juking and jiving as he dove in toward him. The thug tried to get another shot off, but it plugged into the wall. Nightwing slapped the gun from his hand, then put him down with a flat-handed chop to the neck. The thug went down, gurgling.

Nightwing was already swinging away, back to Robin. He activated his comm as he moved so Oracle would hear, so Batman would come running. The boy was crumpled on the dirty alley ground, his cape puddled around him like a curtain of ink. Nightwing fell to his knees, reaching out for his shoulders. “Robin. Robin! Can you talk? Talk to me!”

Oracle’s voice in his ear, “Nightwing, what? What’s going on?”

Nightwing rolled the boy onto his back, and Robin did not resist at all. He was limp and boneless, breathing in whistling gasps. His head rocked on the dirty ground, and Nightwing couldn’t even tell if he was looking at him or somewhere off in the distance with the white-out eyes. He didn’t spend much time trying to figure it out, already feeling down Robin’s limbs and trunk, looking for the bullet hole. “O, Robin is down. Back-up required ASAP.  _Yesterday.”_

Robin squirmed and yelped when Nightwing’s hand hit a patch on his left side, and Nightwing lifted his hand to the yellow streetlight and saw glistening red. His hand went back, instantly, pressing down hard. A half-strangled scream burst from Robin’s throat, and he convulsed against the pressure.

“Robin, look at me. Can you look at me? Look at my face.” 

Nightwing got his palm against the wound, pushing as hard as he could. He couldn’t tell how bad it was, couldn’t tell if it had hit anything vital. Those cheap guns were usually low caliber, not very powerful, but Tim had been shot at close range. No matter how weak the gun was, it was never good to be shot.

Robin’s head arced off the ground, teeth gritted, the tendons on the side of his neck standing out. He was trying to obey, trying to look at Nightwing’s face. He was already sweating badly, and his breath was choked, tearing at his throat.

“Look at me, okay? Breathe. You’re gonna be okay. You got shot, but it’s gonna be fine.”

“Copy that,” Oracle said. “Help is incoming.”

Robin panted, staring at Nightwing’s face the way a sunflower stared at the sun. He didn’t try to talk. His breathing was labored but steady, his chest heaving.

Nightwing managed a smile, somehow. It hurt, pulling at muscles he didn’t usually use. Fake smiles were different than real smiles, he remembered reading that somewhere. Nightwing hadn’t had much reason to fake smile lately. Not since this miraculous kid had come into his life, into Batman’s life. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to not have Tim here.

He didn’t want to have to learn what it would be like again.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said again, because if he said it enough times it was going to be true. “Just keep looking at me. Just keep breathing.”

Robin breathed. He breathed. And he didn’t stop.


	2. “Just talk to me. You can’t handle this alone.” Dick & Tim

When I first saw this prompt I read it as number 25, which is "Give me the bottle." So yeah, this scenario jumped immediately to mind. TW: Suicidal thoughts.

_20\. "Just talk to me. You can't handle this alone."_

It was just a typical patrol night. With Batman out of town, Dick had come back to Gotham to give Tim a hand. They'd patrolled together for a few hours, then separated to cover more ground. Neither needed to call the other for back-up. They foiled the usual muggings, robberies, drug deals, escorted a few innocents to their homes or vehicles. Nothing serious. The costume element was quiet, most of them in Arkham, those who were out laying low.

They got back to the cave and checked each other over. Standard procedure. A few bumps and bruises, a new scrape on Tim's arm where the Robin suit left bare flesh. They didn't even need to call Alfred down for a second opinion. Dick handed him the bottle of ibuprofen, then went over the computer to type up his report for the night.

He expected Tim to come up behind him in a few minutes, waiting for his turn to make his report. But when he finally finished typing, ten minutes later, Tim was not standing there when he turned to look. Dick frowned, then stood up, stretching his neck and whipping his arms out in a giant yawn.

Tim was still in the medical bay. Still sitting on the exam table where Dick had left him. Still holding the bottle of ibuprofen.

He was staring at the bottle as if mesmerized, unmoving.

Dick's heart lurched. Just last week Tim had called him after a patrol, said he'd talked down a jumper. Said he needed to hear Dick's voice. He talked about how it still hurt, how he still thought about them. Every day. Every hour. Everyone he'd lost. It hadn't been hard to talk down the jumper. Yeah, it had taken effort, but... It hadn't been hard.

Because Tim could relate. So easily.

"Tim." Dick moved quickly, but he spoke softly. Didn't want to startle him. Didn't want to make him pull away.

Tim looked up at him, moving slowly and sluggishly. As if the air was molasses, as if it hurt to move. His eyes were glassy and distant, looking through Dick without seeing him.

"Timmy, give me the bottle."

His hand was on Tim's hand, covering his fingers, holding the bottle with him. But he didn't try to snatch it away. He wanted Tim to give it to him.

Tim blinked, and the light in his eyes came back. He glanced down and saw where Dick's hand was holding, saw the bottle. His cheeks flamed red, and he let go of the bottle with a gasp. Dick gripped it smoothly, pulled it away, set it down on a counter out of Tim's reach. He was shaking, he realized belatedly.

So was Tim. "Dick..." His voice was choked. "I wouldn't. I would never."

"I know." Dick crossed back to him in a single stride and grabbed him into a hug. Phone calls were good, it was good that Tim had called him, he would always be glad to talk to him... But you couldn't hug over the phone.

Dick was glad he was here, this time. Live and in person.

Tim grabbed him back just as hard, just as tight. His fingers clenched in the fabric over Dick's back, gripping desperately. "I wouldn't, Dick. I wouldn't."

"But you were thinking about it." It wasn't a question.

"I wouldn't." It was near a sob. Tim rubbed his face against Dick's shoulder, shaking his head.

"I know. I know." Dick pressed a kiss into his hair. Then another one. "I know. Just talk to me. You can't handle this alone."

"I do. I talk to you all the time."

"Every time? Every time this happens?"

Tim was silent. He didn't want to lie.

Dick breathed a shuddering sigh. "Talk to me. Or Alfred. Or Bruce. At least they could hug you. At least they won't be a city away when you need them."

Tim's chest shook in something like laughter. "Yeah, right. I'll go ask Batman for a hug when I'm feeling down."

"You could." Dick tightened his arms. It wasn't funny. "He might not be the best at it, but he would try. You know he would. He loves you, Timmy, we all love you. You don't have to do this alone."

Tim shook his head. Dick's chest was hollow and cold. What if he wasn't there next time? What if no one was there?

All he could do was hold his little brother for as long as he would let him.

Tim let him hold him for a long time.


	3. “You’re going to bed. Now.” Tim & Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one kind of got away from me a little bit.

Hi there! If you're still accepting prompts I would love to see number 3 with hurt!Tim and caregiver!Bruce. Thank you! :)

_3\. “You’re going to bed. Now.”_

"Tim. What are you still doing up?"

Tim blinked and raised his head. Bruce was standing in the doorway. He looked around, his head reeling with disorientation. He was in one of the studies at Wayne Manor, sitting in the window seat. The grounds outside were frosted in the moonlight, gray and green under a sheen of silver-white.

How late was it? He had no idea. He tipped his head toward Bruce with a slow blink. "I don't know. What time is it?"

Bruce frowned. "Late. We got back from patrol two hours ago. I thought you were going to bed."

"You're not in bed," Tim felt compelled to point out.

"I had some casefiles to write up," Bruce said patiently. "But I don't have any meetings at WE until 2 PM tomorrow, and you have school. You should be in bed."

"Oh." Tim looked out the window again.

"That's all you're going to say? Oh?"

Tim hummed.

Bruce hesitated. Tim knew why. They had only signed the adoption papers a few days ago. It was still moving through the court system. Bruce wasn't Tim's dad, not officially, not yet. Yeah, he was his guardian, his father in all the ways that mattered. He could also order Tim to bed as Batman ordering Robin, and Tim would go.

But there was still that distance between them in their civilian identities, the same distance that had been there since the first day Tim had showed up on Bruce's doorway, making foolish demands and trying to bully him back to mental health through sheer force of will. Bruce hadn't tried to cross that distance yet, and Tim hadn't, either. Everything was too raw, too fresh. He could still feel his father's blood on his fingers, on his skin, staining everything and making the world feel so very, very far away.

Bruce took a breath, and then he moved. He picked his way across the study, moving slowly but steadily. Tim stared out the window, but he listened to him coming. Bruce stood beside him for a second, then slowly folded himself down to sit in the other corner of the window seat, facing Tim. It was ridiculous. He was so huge. There was barely room for both of them.

Tim turned his head to look at him with another slow blink. His face remained still. He was so tired that black spots were floating in his vision, and his hands felt numb. His body was nearly limp, lying against the corner of the window, but it wasn't because he was relaxed. It was just because he had almost zero energy left his body.

Yet sleep would not come, and he knew it. There was no point in going to bed. He was just going to lie there and stare at the ceiling or the wall. He might as well look at something nicer, like the moon over the garden that Alfred tended so fastidiously.

"Why aren't you in bed?" Bruce asked. His voice was soft, but there was that sharpness in his eyes that Tim recognized. He had discovered a mystery, and he wanted to solve it.

Tim shrugged. "Didn't want to go." His lips felt numb, too. His eyes burned. His chest was cold, his heart a lump of glass that somehow still beat. Everything was cold, especially where his face pressed against the glass, but he didn't mind it.

"You're tired. I can tell that by looking at you. You need sleep."

Tim saw no point in disagreeing. It was true. "Yeah. Can't though."

"Why not?"

Tim sighed and looked out at the garden. "It doesn't matter."

More accurately, it didn't matter to anyone but Tim. That had always been true. He never saw any point in talking about the things that troubled him, at least not the deep, personal things, because they didn't matter to anyone but him. No one else had to care, so he wasn't going to force them to.

But Bruce surprised him. "It matters to me."

Tim swallowed against his dry throat. He was sufficiently startled that his first response escaped his lips, rather than something more politic. "Why?"

"Because you matter to me."

Bruce reached out, slow and hesitant. Tim froze, unsure how to react. It was all so strange, so unexpected, and he was too tired to process anything new right now. Bruce's fingers brushed his temple, then back through his hair, carding it away from his face.

Tim's eyes fluttered shut. He didn't know what this was, but he didn't want to question it.

"I know...you're still grieving," Bruce said slowly. "That can lead to insomnia, or a lack of desire to sleep." His hand kept moving through Tim's hair in a soft, repetitive motion. "I can think of few other things that might also be messing with your sleep patterns. A hard case maybe, or something at school. A girlfriend? We've never really talked about those. You usually share your girl troubles with Dick, not me.

"I know all this is...new. Maybe you don't want to tell me what's keeping you up, what's hurting you. But I want you to know that I'm here, and you can talk to me. Anytime. About anything. It all matters to me, because you matter to me. All right?"

Tears stung at Tim's dry eyes. He wanted to tell him. How he kept feeling Jack Drake's blood on his fingers, between his toes. Seeing the gleam of metal sticking out of his chest. A chest that was still, silent, never to move or speak or laugh or scold again. 

He was usually good at pushing all of that down. He went to school, he did his homework, he laughed with his friends. He went out as Robin and he fought the rogues and saved the innocents, and he didn't think about his dead dad at all. Not as long as he had something to do.

But when it got quiet. When everything ended for the day. When it was time to go to bed. Sometimes it all came rushing back, and he couldn't force it under again no matter how hard he tried. Sometimes he couldn't sleep, not because he didn't want to--oh, how he wished he could fall asleep right now--but because the images behind his eyes were too bright and present and visceral and impossible to escape.

And here was Bruce, telling him to tell him about it. He seemed genuine. He seemed to mean the words that were coming out of his mouth. They were good words. They were words a dad would say.

But the lump in Tim's throat was too large, too tight. He couldn't speak. He closed his eyes against the window and shook his head.

Bruce sighed in disappointment. Tim waited for the hand to go away, for the touch to stop. For Bruce to accept being shut out of Tim's thoughts, like almost everyone did. It wasn't worth the trouble.

But when Bruce's fingers trailed away, Tim still felt a sting of disappointment. Part of him had hoped, part of him had prayed...

That wasn't the end, though. Bruce moved, shifting closer to Tim, almost looming. The hand returned, wrapping around his shoulders, and Bruce's other arm came around and picked him up under his knees. Tim opened his eyes, jerking in surprise, but his reactions were too slow, his body too sluggish, and the move too unexpected for him to pull away.

Bruce stood up from the window seat, lifting Tim easily in his arms. Tim's head swooped with the motion, and he closed his eyes with a gasp. "You're going to bed. Now."

It wasn't a command, just a statement of fact. Bruce's voice was light and pleasant. Tim grunted and tried to push off his shoulder with one hand, rocking his head against Bruce's elbow. He struggled to sit up in Bruce's arms, feeling light-headed and a bit panicky at the loss of control. "I don't wanna."

"Is this what it's like having a toddler?" Bruce sounded amused. He carried Tim without effort, like he was just holding a couple of grapes. He made his way out of the study and down the hall toward Tim's room.

"'M not a toddler." Tim wrapped one arm around Bruce's neck and held on, blinking through the disorientation. The hallway was tilting in front of his eyes. He felt dangerously close to passing out.

He couldn't do that. It would be so embarrassing.

Bruce hummed noncommittally. He shifted Tim in his arms to get one hand free and turned the doorknob for his room. "Maybe not. I'm still putting you to bed, though."

Tim growled deep in his throat, but couldn't object further. Bruce dumped him into bed with all the grace of a pelican diving into the harbor, then set about removing his shoes. Tim blinked up at the ceiling, watching the black spots float around.

Bruce loosened the covers from underneath him and dragged them around, pulling them up under Tim's chin. Tim stared up at him, strangely fixated. He'd never seen Bruce from this angle before, except a couple of times when he was injured and Bruce had been standing by his bed. He was so big. He filled the world.

Bruce leaned over and cupped his huge hand around Tim's head, holding him for a moment. He was so warm, so soft under his hardness. His eyes were gentle. They weren't like Jack's eyes at all. That lump leaped back into Tim's throat, and his eyes stung again.

He fought one hand free of the covers, somehow, with urgency born of fear. His fingers snagged in Bruce's shirt sleeve and curled there, holding tight. Still, he couldn't speak, couldn't release the words that were pushing at his lips.

Bruce had been about to lean away, releasing Tim's head. Tim could see that in his stance, feel it in the shift of his body. But when Tim's hand grabbed his sleeve, he went still. He looked down at Tim, unmoving, his face almost blank.

"Do you want me to stay?"

Tim nodded. He closed his eyes in relief and let his fingers fall away, his hand thumping down on the covers beside his head. He was so tired, and he couldn't sleep. But maybe, maybe if Bruce was here...

Maybe the images would pack up their things and leave him alone for another night.

And Bruce did it. He stayed. He sat down on the other side of Tim's bed, his back against the headboard, his leg pressing close to Tim's shoulder. His hand came down and rested on Tim's forehead, then brushed back through his hair. Then he kept doing it.

He didn't say anything. Neither did Tim. But the world faded, and sleep pressed in, and Tim let it come. Sleep was not the enemy, after all. Sleep was his friend.

And so was Bruce, at least for tonight. Maybe someday he would be able to think of him as "Dad," too. But at least for tonight... Friend was close enough.


	4. "Where are you? Tell me where you are.” Tim & Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eastofthemoon said:  
> For the prompts, #6 with Tim Drake and Jason Todd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in a possible future of Year of Fallen Angels, if a certain someone is never caught and served the justice he deserves.

_6\. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”_

Jason was stacking boxes in the storeroom of the diner where he worked when the phone in his pocket jingled with a certain ringtone. It was the theme song for one of Tim's favorite TV shows, and it only came from one number.

He dropped the boxes he was holding on the floor and took the phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear. "Timmy?"

The line was quiet. Jason strained to hear, pressing the phone closer to his face. Then he realized that it wasn't silent, after all. Tim was panting, harsh and terrified.

"Tim? Baby bird? Talk to me."

Jason was already striding toward the door of the storeroom and into the kitchen. His manager, Mr. Sevalkis, was leaning over the counter sorting receipts. He looked up at his entrance. Jason raised his eyebrows and pointed to his phone.

Sevalkis grimaced. "One of those calls?" he asked.

"Yeah. Gotta go."

Sevalkis waved a hand. "Get outta here. Come back if you can. Dinner rush in two hours, if you can make it."

"I'll try."

On the other end of the phone, Tim was gulping for breath. Jason moved toward the service entrance, grabbing his leather jacket off the hook on the wall and slinging it on one-handed. "Where are you, Timbo? Tell me where you are. I'll come to you."

"Quad," Tim said faintly. "Front of... Front of the library. There's people around."

"Okay. That's good." Jason slung his leg over his motorcycle. "I'm gonna have to hang up while I drive. Wanna tell me what happened before I do? If not, we can talk when I get there."

Sometimes nothing happened. Nothing external, anyway. Sometimes it was all inside, just a build-up of pressure until it exploded and Tim couldn't take it anymore and called for help. And Jason always came. But sometimes there was a trigger, and sometimes it helped to talk about it. Jason would be happy for any information he could get out of Tim when he was this jammed up, even just a word or two.

"I thought I saw him," Tim said numbly.

Jason clenched his teeth so hard he could hear them creaking under the pressure.

"It probably wasn't him," Tim amended. "Probably just...a trick of the light. Or my stupid brain."

"Maybe," Jason said. "Maybe not, though. Good job getting somewhere public with lots of people around. Stay there, okay? I'll be there soon."

"Yeah." Tim's breath was just a wisp. "Hurry, okay?"

"I will."

He hung up and drove.

He liked the diner. It was mostly a cover, a veneer of legitimacy. He kept light hours, but he worked hard when he was there, mostly janitorial, maintenance, short order cooking during meal rushes. He liked it most of all because they had agreed to his one condition.

First thing at the interview, as soon as he sat down, he put it out on the table. "Listen, I know it's bad form or whatever for the job applicant to make demands, but I gotta let you know, I can't work here unless you can put up with something for me. Sometimes I get a phone call, and I have to drop everything and leave. I'll do my best to come back when it's taken care of, but it's not negotiable. If you can't handle that, we should just end the interview now, and I'll keep looking for work elsewhere."

The owner, Anderson, was there, and Jason's future manager, Sevalkis. Anderson started making uncomfortable noises, but Sevalkis raised a hand. He looked at Jason steadily, barely blinking. "That's a pretty extraordinary demand. I think we can handle it, as long as you're not out making drug deals or something. Can you tell me a little more about these phone calls you'll be getting?"

Jason huffed a laugh. "Not drug deals, I promise. It's not really your business. But yeah, okay, I get that you need more than my word."

Sevalkis placed both hands flat on the table and looked Jason deep in the eyes. "I don't need your life story. A summary will do."

"I have a little brother. Couple of years ago, he was tortured." He didn't say by who, or why, or any other details. This was Gotham. Innocent people got tortured on a semi-regular basis. 

"He's doing okay, most of the time. Going to college, working part-time. Every once in a while it gets to be too much for him, though, and I get a call. And I go."

The corner of Sevalkis's mouth turned up. "Your personal Bat signal."

Jason laughed again, a little more genuinely. "Yeah. We joke that I'm his bodyguard, twenty-four seven. Even when I'm halfway across the city, I'm protecting him in spirit if not in body. He's a good kid. The best. He doesn't deserve what happened to him, and he doesn't deserve how hard things are for him now. I would do anything for him."

"Including losing any chance at gainful employment?" Anderson asked.

"Including?" Jason gave him a sharp-toothed smile. "That's the _least_ of what I would do for my baby bro, pal. The _very_ least."

"I like him," Sevalkis said, already reaching across the table to shake Jason's hand. "You're hired."

Anderson balked. "No other questions?"

Sevalkis shrugged. "I read his resume. The interview is for gut impressions, not dry facts. A guy who would drop anything to help his kid brother deal with PTSD will work hard and give his all at other things, too, including a job in a crappy little greasy spoon like this one. I like him, and I'm hiring him, unless you want to overrule me."

Anderson shook his head. Jason and Sevalkis shook hands, and that was it.

Now, he parked his motorcycle basically on the sidewalk of the quad at Gotham U, barely taking time to set the kickstand and take off his helmet before he was jogging across the grass. Tim was sitting at a stone picnic table in front of the library, his bright red hoodie standing out like a flag. He was slumped over with his head buried in his folded arms, and a nice-looking girl was sitting next to him with a hand on his back.

Jason slid onto the bench across from them, giving the girl a pleasant smile. "Hi. You a classmate of Tim's?"

She nodded. "Zo. Zoanne. We're not in any classes together, since he started too late, but we hang out sometimes. You're Jay?"

"Yup. I'll take over for ya. You can go back and take care of whatever you were doing, no worries. Timmy's in good hands with me."

She smiled. "I know. He talks about you a lot. His other siblings, too."

Zoanne took her leave, and Jason leaned over, his head near to Tim's. "You wanna tell me where you think you saw him? I'll check it out for you."

Tim shook his head against his arms and rolled it over to look at Jason with one eye, peeking out between his arms. "I already sent an alert to O. She's checking security footage. I don't think she's going to find anything, though. It was just me being crazy again."

"Hey, what have we said about that?" Jason laid his hands on Tim's upper arms and gave them a careful squeeze. "It's not crazy to be scared of a dude who hurt you like that. It's perfectly rational. Your brain is just trying to protect you by pointing out things that even remotely might be him."

Tim pulled in a shuddering breath and slowly sat up. His arms slid out of Jason's grip, but he offered his hands instead. Jason folded them between his, massaging carefully but firmly. He could feel the ridges of scars, the bumps and off-angles where the pins had come out. Tim's hands were shaking, of course. But Jason's were too, a little.

He kept rubbing Tim's hands, rolling his slender fingers between his, pressing big blunt thumbs into his narrow palms and massaging in circles. Damian was still the best at giving Tim hand massages, but they all had had plenty of practice by now. It had become a ritual, a way for them to connect with Tim and help him calm down when things were rough, a tangible expression of how much they cared and how much they wanted to erase his pain and help him heal.

Eventually Tim's shoulders went boneless, his eyes drooping and face slack, and even his hands had relaxed down to their normal faint level of trembling that never really went away. Jason stood up and went around to his side of the table to draw him to his feet. "C'mon, baby bird. Let's blow this popsicle stand. You want me to take you home, or would you rather come hang out with me at the diner during dinner rush?"

Tim perked up a bit, leaning into Jason's side as he led him over to his bike. "Will I get to watch you cook?"

Jason chuckled. "Maybe. You like that?"

"It's funny watching you swear at everyone for not keeping up with you, even while you're grinning like you're having the time of your life."

"Yeah, the diner is good fun. Let's go. Sevalkis will probably give you a free piece of pie."

"Rhubarb?"

"You know what, hold that thought. I'll call ahead and tell him to reserve a piece for you."

Tim sat on Jason's bike, grinning without a hint of fear in his eyes, while Jason called his boss and told him to save a piece of his kid brother's favorite pie. The sky was clear, and McDaniels wasn't in jail, but he wasn't here, either. And everything was as good as it could get, for now.


	5. “Why does everyone always leave me?” Tim & Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Ooh thank you for taking prompts cause I’ve been craving a hurt Tim! Maybe 16 as a confession by a drugged up tim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went light-hearted on this one. With a dash of angst, as always.

_16\. “Why does everyone always leave me?”_

Tim's mouth, like everything about him, was too small. And that meant he had to get his wisdom teeth taken out. He had hoped that he would be one person who did not have much reaction to the anesthesia at all. He was wrong.

"Timmy, I am so sad," Dick told him as he sat in the backseat with him, trying to keep him calm while Bruce drove them home. "I am so sad that you forbade me from videoing this. I am so sad that you will not see this, because it's hysterical, and I'm dying."

Dick said all of this in the most calm and comforting voice he could manage. It was nearly deadpan. His entire body was shaking.

Tim kept reaching his fingers up, trying to poke them into his mouth, and Dick kept stopping him, grabbing his hands and gently pulling them down. Tim was crying quietly, tear after tear streaking down his cheeks. "My tongue feels like sheep, Dickie."

"That's the gauze, buddy. Don't poke it. Does it hurt?"

"No. It's all mashed potatoes." Dick accidentally loosened his grip on his hands as his shoulders shook with laughter, and Tim's fingers crept toward his mouth. Dick grabbed his hands again. "But 'm not hungry, Dick. Tell Alfie to put the mash'potoes 'way now. It smells like gravy in here."

Dick sniffed the air. "That's just eau de Gotham, kiddo. It really doesn't smell edible to me."

Tim was sufficiently confused by this to sit still for a few moments, glazed eyes staring away. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, then started coughing. A piece of bloody gauze came flying out of his mouth.

Dick caught it deftly with one hand and stuck it back in. "Okay, no more sniffing. Let's think about something besides smells, okay?"

Tim gave him a look of a deep betrayal. "You said oh du Gotham, Dick. I had to sniff."

"I'm sorry, Timbo, that was my mistake. No more sniffing. What do you want to do when we get back to the manor?"

Tim thought about this seriously for a few seconds. "Not homework. I'm really tired of homework."

"I know, buddy." Since Bruce had come back from the timestream and was doing his best to get his family back on track, Tim had stepped down from Wayne Enterprises and gone back to high school at his father's behest. He was very far behind and had been working hard to catch up. It was no wonder he was sick of it.

"No homework," Dick promised. "We can watch TV or something."

"No math," Tim said balefully, as if he was staring down the worst members of Batman's gallery of rogues. "Numbers are zombies."

Dick nearly choked. "I'm not following your logic, handsome. How are numbers zombies?"

"Dead. Gross. Ugly. I don't like 'em."

"Okay, I guess that follows. I thought you liked math, though. Those are some of your best classes. How do you feel about English?"

Tim hummed. "Too many words. It's like an orchestra. All mixed up, can't follow it."

"Yeah, I guess that... I guess that makes sense."

Dick had accidentally let go of his hands again. Tim's fingers snuck into his mouth.

Dick let out an exasperated noise and grabbed his hands again. "Timmy, no. Why do you keep going back there again and again? I told you not to."

"Something's missing," Tim said dolefully, sniffing this time because of tears instead of trying to smell the air. "I want it back."

"It's just teeth, honey. We had to get 'em out because they were hurting you. Or they would hurt you in the future."

Tim's face got even longer, and he stared at Dick in dismay. "Why does everyone always leave me? Not even my teeth want to stay?"

And then he was sobbing, which seemed to hurt. Dick's heart fell into his stomach, and his laughter abruptly dried up. "Oh, Tim."

He unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted closer, then undid Tim's seatbelt as well and pulled him into his arms. He would trust Bruce not to get them into a crash. Tim cried into his chest, moaning as it jarred his sore cheeks. "Timmy, Timmy. It's okay." Dick stroked the back of his head with one hand. "It was just teeth, buddy. We're still here. No one else is leaving you. And hey, Bruce came back, right? And Conner, and Bart, and Stephanie, too."

Tim sniffled and pulled back to look up at Dick's face. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was totally pathetic and adorable, and Dick just wanted to hug him again. "Will my teeth come back too?"

Dick grimaced. "Sorry, kiddo. I think your mouth is done producing teeth."

Tim held still for a split second, then burst into a fresh round of tears and wails. Dick sighed and pulled him back into his arms.

This was going to be a long day.


	6. “I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe.” Tim & Damian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Could I request 6 and 24 with Tim and Damian (or Jason).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve already written 6 with Tim and Jason (and there’s another prompt in my inbox for 6, too; you guys really liked that one). So here’s Tim and Damian in a nebulous period where Damian is still being a total jerk to Tim on a regular basis but they do actually care about each other.

_24\. “I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe.”_

Drake had been missing for three days. When he missed checking in the first day, no one thought much of it. Drake often got caught up in his work post-patrol and fell asleep before making a report, verbally or electronically. He would catch up the next day, sometimes with an apology, sometimes without. Father and Pennyworth scolded him, but that didn’t stop it from happening again.

When he didn’t check in the second evening, though, and hadn’t sent any reports about the first night either, an alarm was raised. Father contacted Wayne Enterprises and found that he hadn’t been at work, either. Oracle began searching all of the video feeds and reaching out to their network of contacts. Father’s teeth gritted, his eyes narrowed, and every movement was sharp and focused. Damian was sure that Drake would not remain missing for long.

On the third day, Grayson came back from Bludhaven to help with the search. The Birds of Prey dropped the case they’d been working on to assist. Even Red Hood was called upon, and even worse, he responded.

Damian wasn’t worried, though. Of course not. Drake was too annoying to die. He’d probably just fallen asleep in a subway tunnel or something, and his persistent exhaustion was such that he had yet to wake up. Yes, that was a reasonable explanation.

But when Oracle came through with a lead, Damian moved in with everyone else. It was a warehouse, abandoned since the quake years ago, with known ties to Two-Face and his gang, though as far as anyone knew it was not currently in use. Drake had made a note on his personal computer about checking old known villain hideouts for boobytraps and caches, and it had taken this long for Oracle to break his encryption. The area was so out of the way and abandoned that there weren’t any working video feeds.

Nightwing and Batman took the front entrance, Red Hood went in the skylight, and Robin found a back entrance with a single guard. He reported the presence of the guard, hissing through his teeth, because it was proof that the warehouse was not currently abandoned after all. Batman acknowledged the report, and then the others closed in. In moments, Robin could hear fighting over the comm.

He took out the back guard with a batarang and secured his wrists, then picked the lock and slipped inside. He heard the fighting more clearly now, echoing through the dusty halls and rusted vents. Only a few lightbulbs were lit in the back hallways he traveled through. He stuck to the shadows, his head swiveling back and forth as he watched for enemies.

It didn’t take him long to find another guarded door, this one with two men. They were tense, guns out and down by their sides, but their attention was aimed away from Robin. The sounds of Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood fighting whoever else was in the warehouse was acting as a good distraction.

Robin swung up to the pipes on the ceiling with careful stealth, carried himself a few feet closer hand-over-hand, then dropped on them from above. A couple of kicks disabled their gun-carrying hands, causing the guns to skitter off into the shadows, and blows to the temple took the guards down the rest of the way. They tried to fight him, but their blows were uncoordinated, and they never landed a hit on him.

Robin secured these guards, too, with zip ties around their wrists and knees, then turned toward the door. He didn’t know what they were guarding, but he could tell it was important. It could be Drake, could be goods or valuables, even Two-Face himself. The door was both locked and barred, thick metal with no window or any other features. He removed the bar and made short work of the padlock and chain with his lockpicks once again, then stepped inside.

“Red Robin? Are you here?”

The room was dark, and his feet shuffled through a layer of dirt and dust on the floor. There was a dank smell, unpleasant and pervasive. Mildew, rot, broken wood, concrete dust…vomit.

Now that the sounds of fighting were muffled, or perhaps coming to an end, Robin could hear breathing in the room with him. It was harsh and low, but Robin was about eighty percent sure that he recognized it.

He couldn’t help but gloat. “I knew I’d be the first to find you, Red Robin. What’s wrong, couldn’t rescue yourself? I thought even you would be able to overcome such pathetic thugs, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that your skills would not be up to the challenge.”

Drake coughed, the sound broken and choked. “Da—Robin, please…. Shut up.”

The words were barely audible, as if forced out through a stranglehold. Damian frowned. He looked around for a lightswitch or pull string, but when he found a switch, nothing happened. He flipped his lenses to night vision instead.

Drake was sitting in the corner of the room, propped against both walls. His hands and feet were both bound with thick chains, and he was badly beaten, his suit torn in places, head drooping. More worrying, now that Damian was paying attention, was the way he was breathing. It sounded like something was wrong with his lungs.

Damian closed his lips and moved forward. He had to maneuver around several broken crates and a puddle of sickness on the floor, his nose wrinkling up. He knelt by Drake’s side, ignoring his start of surprise at the sudden closeness, and started working on removing the restraints from his arms.

“Report on your condition,” Robin said grimly.

Red Robin sighed, but it cut off in the middle, interrupted by a coughing fit. He leaned away from Robin, trying to muffle himself on his shoulder and not spray him with germs. His body seemed to spasm in the throes of it, and Robin had to back off until it stopped, unable to work on the cuffs while it continued.

Drake finally finished coughing and slumped against the wall with something close to a sob. “I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe.”

“I’m working on it,” Damian said, turning back to the cuffs. His voice was surprisingly gentle to his own ears. “Are you sick?”

Stupid question. The answer was obviously yes.

Drake laughed almost soundlessly, trying not to let his chest move. He held his hands as still as he could for Damian to work on. “It was…was just a minor head cold three days ago. Prob'ly pneumonia now.”

“You should have stayed in if you had a cold, you idiot. The rest of us can take care of Gotham without you.”

“Probably. I honestly thought this place was abandoned, though. It was just gonna…just gonna be a routine check. You know Joker left behind…an armed nuke in one of his old hideouts?” He had to keep pausing for breath.

Damian frowned and worked harder. For some reason this lock was much more tricky than the two doors he had just picked. Maybe because his hands were trembling. Or maybe that was Drake. “Stop talking. You’ll make your lungs worse.”

“Don’t think that’s…possible.”

But Drake fell silent, letting him work. The lock finally opened with a muffled clink, and Damian pulled the chains away, unwrapping them from his brother’s arms. Drake flexed his hands, trying to encourage circulation.

Damian turned to the chains on his feet. The sounds in the rest of the warehouse had ceased, so he activated his comm now that he wouldn’t distract the others in a crucial moment. “Batman, Nightwing, I’ve found Red Robin. Requesting transport. I don’t think he should walk, and I can’t carry him on my own.”

“I can walk,” Drake protested.

Batman was already answering, his voice sharp with worry. “Is he injured?”

“Ill. Possibly pneumonia. His respiration is labored and uneven.”

“On our way.”

Damian finished the other lock and pulled those chains away, too. Drake’s trembling seemed even more pronounced, perhaps a reaction to finally being rescued after days of lonely vigilance, enduring both mistreatment from enemies and the betrayal of his own body. As soon as he was free, he tried to push himself to his feet, shoving along the wall. As Damian expected, though, his knees buckled almost immediately.

Damian shoved in closer with a growl and got his shoulder under Drake’s armpit, pulling his hand around his neck. “Lean on me. We can at least get out in the hall. Then we’re waiting for assistance, do you hear me?”

“Yeah, okay,” Drake said faintly. He leaned on Damian and let him lead the way, weaving around the crates, the puddle of vomit.

In the hallway, Drake did not object to being lowered down to sit against the wall. His eyes were dilated in the dim light, mouth open as he panted. When Damian switched his lenses to normal mode, he could see how pale and clammy his skin was, translucent where it wasn’t bruised.

His breathing did seem slightly easier, though, away from the awful smell of that tight little room. Damian considered, then chose to sit next to him against the wall while they waited. Drake shivered, then leaned against him, just a little. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Damian said stiffly. He did not point out, again, how pathetic Drake was to have needed rescue, and how stupid he was not to have taken care of himself, for allowing his illness to progress to this point. It was as close as he could get to being kind and comforting.

If he was Grayson, he would say something else. “You’ll be okay,” maybe. Or, “I will always come for you, of course.” He’d call Drake by a pet name and make him feel comfortable and safe and loved.

But all he could do was sit there. He could be strong as Drake leaned against him and not lean away.

“Father’s coming,” he said, and Drake nodded limply on his shoulder.

It could have been worse.


	7. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Tim & Alfred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> 3 or 9 with Tim and Alfred? I look forward to your hurt Tim fic! Thank you for your writing!

_9\. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”_

Sometimes Tim still dreamed about having the Clench. It was kind of dumb, really. Yeah, Tim had almost died of a plague once upon a time, but it was years ago now. A lot of worse things had happened to him in the meantime. That was even before the earthquake and all of that. But maybe that was why it stuck in his brain, sometimes. His first traumatic experience as Robin.

(In his more morbid moods, he thought they should have commemorated that time with a cake. Like a baby’s first birthday. Little Vigilante’s First Major Trauma. Congratulations! Blow the party horn.)

Sometimes he woke up twisted in his blankets and thought he couldn’t breathe. He felt sweat on his face and thought it was bloody tears. He got a cramp in his hand and thought that his muscles were clenching, never to release, his organs were eating themselves, and soon he would be dead on the floor.

Round Two was supposed to be much faster than Round One, after all. Yes, there had been a cure, and the second plague had been stopped, but was that really the end? It was still in Tim’s blood, after all, though supposedly neutralized. It would never truly be fully exorcised. The wires had been cut on the bomb, but it was still a bomb. It was embedded in his body, every part and sinew, and it could never be removed.

Sometimes he watched the news, looking for new cases. Sometimes he watched the faces of his fellow Gothamites, looking for the cankers and sores that signified a new breakout. He wasn’t the only one with a neutralized bomb in his blood, after all. There were thousands of them, maybe hundreds of thousands.

It was another dark Gotham night, and Tim woke with a shuddering gasp, shaking under his covers. He had a cold, nothing serious, but he had moved back to the manor for monitoring for a few days. With his lack of a spleen, even minor illnesses could turn deadly very quickly. He needed to be near help in case his body decided to go septic with no warning.

He lifted a shaky hand and swiped at the sweat, then raised his hand to the dim light to see if it was red. No, just sweat. It was sticky and unpleasant, but it was clear. He breathed, in and out, trying to calm down.

It was no good. He was wide awake now, his heart pounding with adrenaline. Tim pushed himself up to a sitting position, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. A glance at the clock told him that it was in the small hours of morning. Bruce likely hadn’t returned from patrol yet, but Damian ought to be in bed now.

Maybe Alfred was in the kitchen, catching up on work from the past day or starting ahead on the new one. Everyone accused Tim of not getting enough sleep, but he honestly didn’t know when Alfred slept. Presumably when Bruce did, but he always seemed to go to bed after Bruce and get up before him.

Tim wavered to his feet and padded downstairs, one hand pressed over his heart to soothe the erratic beating. He tried not to clench his fingers, tried not to feel the tightness in his back. No clenching, no clenching. He was fine. It was nothing. Just a cold. Just a dream.

Thankfully, Alfred was indeed in the kitchen. Tim let out a breath of relief and padded to the kitchen table. He reached out for a chair, missed, grabbed again, dragged it out, and dropped himself down.

Alfred looked at him, then, with barely an eyebrow raise. He didn’t seem surprised to see him. Nothing seemed to surprise Alfred, and Tim was glad for that. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, dear boy?”

“I  _was_  in bed,” Tim replied. He wasn’t surprised to hear the tremble in his voice. “I woke up.”

Alfred’s eyes softened. “I see. Tea?”

“Please.”

There was already a kettle on to boil. Had Alfred already been making tea for himself, or had he somehow known Tim was coming? Tim wouldn’t be surprised either way. He flattened his hand over his heart and felt the beats begin to slow, gently calming as he watched Alfred work.

Alfred made tea for both of them, the same blend. Tim didn’t know what it was. Something herbal and good for relaxation, presumably. Certainly even lifting the teacup to his face and breathing the fumes had a calming effect on him. He cradled the cup in both hands, blowing gently on the surface until it was cool enough to sip.

Alfred, he of the asbestos tongue, or at the very least British stoicism, started drinking long before Tim did. He sat across from him at the table, the teapot between them. Alfred’s posture was relaxed, his legs crossed, his eyes far away. Just looking at him made Tim feel stronger, more in control of himself.

Eventually Alfred set his teacup down on its saucer, regarding Tim with a gentle pressure. “Do you want to talk about it, Master Tim?”

Tim started to shake his head, but stopped the motion before he truly began. “Do you remember when I had the Clench?”

Tim might have imagined it, but there seemed to be a crack in Alfred’s studied calm. He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I do.”

His voice was soft, but it rang in the silent kitchen like a clarion. Alfred remembered with perfect clarity, of course. He remembered every bad thing that happened to his boys, his children, with perfect clarity.

The corner of Tim’s mouth curled up, and he leaned back in his chair. He held the cup to his chest, still breathing in the herbal scent. “I said then that you were a rock. Good ol’ Alfred. Nothing ever fazes you. I guess I needed that rock again tonight. Thanks for being here.”

Alfred sat straighter. “Yes. I’m here as ever, Master Tim. I have no intentions of going anywhere else.”

“Thank God for that.” Tim sipped his tea, his eyelids drooping. “You know, I keep… I keep thinking it might come back. I dream about it sometimes. I’ll get a cramp, or get something wet in my eyes, and I’ll think…” He chuckled, but it fell flat. “Stupid, huh?”

“No,” Alfred murmured. “Not a bit.”

Alfred hummed and brushed away imaginary crumbs from the tabletop. “Master Tim, I must confess… You said that I was a rock for you during that time, and I’m very pleased to hear that I was able to comfort you when you were in so much distress. But I don’t mind telling you now… Near the end, when it seemed all hope was lost, I was not quite as much of a rock as you seem to think.”

Tim blinked and raised his head. Was, was he saying…?

Alfred looked in his eyes and offered a smile, small and infinitely fond. “I wept copiously from the fear of losing you, dear boy. Your eyes were bandaged at the time, so you did not see, and I did everything I could to hold my voice steady. I was grateful that you couldn’t see my tears, as I didn’t want to frighten you. But oh, the prospect of losing you was very, very bitter.”

“Oh.” Tim set his teacup down with a trembling hand. The tea was warm in his stomach, in his chest. He felt soft and gelatinous, his insides expanding in a cloud of warm down. “Thanks, I guess.”

Alfred reached across the table and patted his hand. “You are well loved, Master Tim. I’m glad to have you back in the manor, even for a few days. I wish you would stay longer.”

Tim managed a half smile. “Maybe if Damian ever stops treating me like garbage, I’ll consider it.”

Alfred sighed. “Master Damian’s is not the only opinion that matters, you know. Master Bruce and I both want you. If Master Dick and Mistress Cass were here, they would too. The manor is your home, now and always.”

Tim shrugged and drank his tea. The soft mood of a moment ago was slightly soured now, and he was sorry for that. Still, they sat in companionable silence, slowly working their way through the entire teapot.

Before he went back to bed, Tim shuffled over to Alfred in his slippers and put his arms around him. “Thank you, Alfred,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I scared you, all that time ago. I promise, I have no intention of letting you lose me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Alfred wrapped his arms around him in return and held on tight, pressing the side of his head against Tim’s. Alfred seemed like a frail old man, sometimes, but there was a lot of strength in his arms. He just about crushed the air right out of Tim’s lungs for a moment.

“Sleep well, my boy.”

“You too, Alfred.”

The rest of the night was dreamless and deep.


	8. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.” Tim & Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Hurt!Tim and no. 6 please :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna skip this because I’d already written it with Tim and Jason, but it is just SUCH a good prompt. There are definitely more than two scenarios that could be written with that line.

_“Where are you? Tell me where you are.”_

"Bruce, can you come get me?"

It was Tim's voice, breathless, scared. Bruce pressed the phone closer to his ear, already heading for the door before he realized that he didn't even know where Tim was. He could hear chatter and music in the background on Tim's end, young voices, boisterous and loud, a bass line boosted high enough to distort the pop music coming out of a too-large speaker. Had Tim gone to a party or something?

Bruce clenched his fist. He really should have put a tracker on the kid. But he was supposed to be having a normal life, at least sometimes. Living with his dad, going to school, hanging out with his friends. He wasn't supposed to be in danger, not when he wasn't dressed in a brightly colored costume fighting criminals and monsters on the grimy streets.

"Where are you? Tell me where you are."

Tim let out a breath of relief, as if he hadn't been sure if Bruce would agree to come for him. As if he didn't know how important he was. As if he didn't know that Bruce would go to the ends of the earth for him, let alone a house party somewhere in the suburbs of Gotham.

"Brad Culbert's house," he said miserably. "Do you know who that is? Of course you do. You've probably memorized the contact information of everyone in my school, you paranoid freak."

Bruce snorted. Tim wasn't far wrong. He had certainly run background checks on all of the teachers at Tim's junior high, as well as most of the students. He didn't quite have it all memorized, though. He pulled Culbert's address up on his wrist computer as he strode toward the garage, grabbing a jacket from a coat rack as he went.

"I'm on my way. Tell me the situation. Why do you want to leave? Are you somewhere safe?" And why was he calling Bruce instead of Jack? Was he worried about getting into trouble, and he thought that Bruce wouldn't scold him the way his father would? In that he was definitely wrong, though Bruce planned to keep the lecture until after he had Tim safe. Within arm's length. Possibly between two layers of armor.

A door closed on Tim's end, and the noise of the party became muffled, as if he had shut himself in a closet or a bathroom. It bothered Bruce that he hadn't already done that on his own, before calling Bruce. Was Tim compromised in some way?

"It was just, just supposed to be this end of the school year fling," Tim said, his voice wavering. "I thought it was gonna be, you know, like soda and chips and board games and maybe some people would swim in Brad's pool. He has a nice pool. I didn't realize until like an hour in that his parents weren't here. And I didn't realize that someone had spiked the punch until, like, ten minutes ago."

Bruce eyes narrowed. He was in the car now, one of the Bentleys that looked relatively ordinary but had been reinforced with heavy armor, just in case. He hadn't noticed that Tim's voice had a slight slur in it until he mentioned the punch. "How much did you drink?" he asked sharply.

"Kind of a lot." Tim sounded like he was going to cry. "I'm really sorry, Bruce. I should have been more aware of my surroundings. I thought there was just, like, lemon juice or something in it. Something kind of bitter. I've never been drunk before. I don't know what to do. I’m really scared and I feel kinda sick. Please don't yell at me."

Well, and now Bruce felt like an asshole. He softened his voice and deliberately made himself loosen his fist around the phone, though he did not let up on the gas pedal. "It's okay. It wasn't your fault. You've never even tasted alcohol before, have you?"

Tim was such a good kid. Always obedient, always attentive, never out of line. He seemed almost terrified of screwing up, rather, which was a little too far the other way. Bruce was kind of looking forward to the day Tim was comfortable enough with him to rebel a little, though he was also dreading it. There was no way he would have consumed enough alcohol to get drunk at the age of _fourteen_ if he'd been aware of what he was doing.

"No," Tim moaned, and now he was sniffling. "I'm really, really sorry. Please don't tell my dad."

Oh no. He was a sad drunk. Poor kid.

Now Bruce's heart was totally melted, and there was no use even trying to deny it to himself. He tried to keep it out of his voice, though. Hopefully Tim was too inebriated to tell. "It's okay, Tim. You can sleep it off at the manor. We'll come up with a story for your dad."

Tim let out a breath. "No need. He's still on his book tour. I just...please don't tell him when he gets back."

Bruce had to close his mouth and do meditative breathing for a few moments to release his rage. Even now, when he was sporadically trying to be a better father, Jack Drake was still managing to neglect his already heavily neglected son. _Not my business,_ Bruce reminded himself, as he did every time he was smacked in the face again by Jack's inadequacies. _Not my business, not my business, not my business._

"Okay," he said once he got himself under control. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Just keep yourself safe." He did not trust a bunch of unruly high schoolers around his tiny, tipsy Robin. Not even a little bit. "I'm coming for you. Everything is going to be okay."

He held the phone against his shoulder with the side of his head as he checked the glove compartment to see if he had any activated charcoal. Yep, an almost full bottle. He was gonna pour the whole thing down the kid's throat. Hopefully that would stave off any potential alcohol poisoning. If that didn't work, Bruce would not hesitate to drive him to the ER and get his stomach pumped. Hell, he would take the Batjet.

"Thank you," Tim breathed, still sniffling. "I'm gonna...gonna stay in the bathroom. It's down the hallway from the front door, second door on the left."

"Lock the door. I'll be there soon."

He set the phone down on the seat and drove.

If Bruce had a little too much fun bursting in the front door and putting on the Batman voice to scare a bunch of drunk and half-drunk teenagers, that was no one's business but his own. Someone yelled, "It's the cops!" at an incredibly high pitch, and everyone scattered in a very satisfactory way. Then Bruce strode down the hallway to retrieve his inebriated kid.

Tim did not have a good night, though fortunately the trip to the ER turned out to be unnecessary. Bruce did indeed get a handful of activated charcoal capsules into him, though it was probably too late to do any good, as well as several bottles of water. He stayed with him while he threw up and cried and babbled apologies, seemingly for hours, then fell asleep in a sweaty, stinky heap. He camped out in a chair next to the guest room bed where he had carried the boy, keeping an eye out for any signs of alcohol poisoning. Tim made it through the night, and in the morning, Alfred prescribed his patented hangover cure: a raw egg with Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce. 

It was punishment enough, almost. Bruce barely scolded him for his lack of situational awareness, though he did step up Tim's training in that area over the next couple of weeks. As promised, he didn't tell Jack. He didn't think Jack would care even if he did, and the thought made him angry every time it rose to his mind, but eventually he managed to repress it.

Tim deserved better. Bruce wasn't much better than Jack Drake, he knew that. It was a low bar, but Bruce had cleared it. If Jack Drake wasn't going to be there to care for his son, Bruce would damn well do it for him. Every single time.


End file.
